A Sanguine Pool of Moonlight
by Poorfox
Summary: His destiny was written in blood long ago. An era has come and gone, but once again the hero rises. The shadows are deeper than ever before, and there is only one way for him to survive to trials ahead; to become darker than the shadow itself. AU
1. Untold dreams, remembrance of Shadow

Amid endless deserts and vast oceans, there lies a tiny island where the last living thing; a simple flower, grows. There is only one left, now. As the sun falls beneath the line of ocean governing the end of the world, its leaves droop, and wilt, falling to the bare earth.

By morning, there is only one leaf left. The plant struggles to survive, the flickering candle-flame of life fanned by the urgent pleas of three divine voices as they rose in song, begging it to live. Their will gathers power, and is focussed, focussed on this one infinitesimal speck of resistance against the grave. Even the omnipotence of these Gods cannot sustain this for eternity. One by one the voices falter and fade away. As the sun goes down again, as the final note dies, the flower dies with it. Shadow covers the world, and the Gods are dead.

The shadows spread, and writhe like living creatures. The sunlit lands on the south of the world are overrun, and eternity becomes the void. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. Nothing stirs.

Aeons pass. A shadow twists. A shadow moves. A shadow breathes. The shadow remembers a time before the darkness, and rises from the ashes of a dead world. The raw power of the void tears a rent in the formless chaos, and searches. Every shadow must be cast by something. The shadow searches long and hard – for what cast it. The shadow finds an echo of the past, another world, a soul reborn! The shadow gathers all the might of the silent place after a world becomes nothing, and tears the veil between eternity and the void once more. A tiny rent and it slips through. It searches for the soul that echoes its own form – the reborn being of light incomplete, with no shadow.

---

Rays of purest light filtered down through the clouds onto the small cluster of concrete buildings, light that seemed impossibly bright for an English school even now, in the midst of summer. Illuminated by the sun's rays, large groups of children walked past; most of them too old to be referred to as children any more, a wild assortment of people. They ranged from the giggling first year students – the eleven year olds running at each other with shrieks of laughter, their voices still high pitched and squeaky - to the seniors, soon to be leaving behind their school to step forward into the real world, whether that be into one of the many well-acclaimed universities that were open to the more gifted students, to working the checkouts in their local supermarkets, possibly in the early hours of the morning where they were less likely to embarrass their superiors who earned more money for far less work, for no reason other than that they wore suits – often shabby - and sat in a small room signing unnecessary paperwork.

Most of this crowd was broken into smaller groups, often of five or so people, with the occasional pairs standing talking by their lockers, ungracefully throwing their many books haphazardly into the narrow wooden and metal boxes. After careful observation a watcher might see that the groups, though not always, were frequently dominated by members of a single year group. At a quick glance, any student could say the same. There were so many little social hierarchies and boundaries, never to be crossed, that none but a student could keep up with them all. The observer, if they stood for the duration of the short lunch break, would see one figure, seemingly a lone monkey in a sea of apes, emptying his locker, then to slowly trudge back to one of the many rooms he took lessons in. Not for another of the lessons he dreaded, instead to a simple registration period; only a quarter of his lessons length, but still as hated at the rest of his life- both in and out of school.

Long matted locks of dark blonde, almost brown hair framed a weary face that should have been handsome, yet all the features of his face was hidden behind a mask of uncaring detachment. In all meanings of the word 'Mask' his face could be described, for it did conceal his true feelings, hiding just how much he hated his life, the eternal solitude he felt and resented, and, most of all, concealing the constant pain that plagued not only his seemingly endless days of depression, but also his dreams. The pain of those dreams stopped all but a few dreaded hours of sleep every week. The dreams filled with his anguish, his anguish, and his memories. How he hated those memories.

The night before had been particularly gruesome. Willed by the weight of several restless and tiring days, his eyelids had drooped, only for the nightmare to spring into vibrancy as soon as his slumber had crept too deep for him to wake. In the dream, his eyes were closed, and he felt the cold edge of metal against his back, reassuring him with its presence, although he had never been able to say what it could be. He had recognised the nightmare as what it was this time. He didn't always. Clawing desperately at his eyelids, he finally prised them opening, covered in cold sweat and gasping for air. He opened them – in the dream.

---

He stood on a huge, grassy plain, stretching from horizon to horizon. A high stone wall rose up before him, and fresh blood ran down his cheeks, like the tears of Din as she wept for her children. Long ridged grooves stood out on his face, but the eyes themselves stared ahead, frozen in horror. It was dusk.

The pain of his sanguine tears was nothing! As he stared before him, the shadows congealed into a vile figure astride a dark horse. The figure dominated the land around him, looming from the ground to the horizon. From his lofty perch, he seemed to loom from ground to sky, several times larger than the boy rooted in fear beneath him. Behind the figure, a closed drawbridge stood tall – and firmly shut in defiance of the only route to freedom. Flickering torches drew thin bubbles of light around themselves, like divine sentinels against the evil before them. As this man – no, this fel creature – raised a hand in what almost looked like a greeting, the flames flared a cold blue.

"Hero" the figure intoned - his voice a harsh, sneering slur "Link. Boy!" Roaring the last word, he threw back his head and laughed with the harsh rumble and all the humanity of an avalanche. Blue flaring flames and raised hand alike tightened, one into an upraised fist, the other into a black emptiness that rushed to encircle this threatening fist. "The saviour of the light must not have any darkness within the dredges of his pathetic little soul. Should he?" His voice rose, the last two words an imposing, angry shout of rage. "Perhaps I shall serve the Goddesses in my own way, just as they will serve me, in time. Fitting, don't you think?"

"Farore will not permit you to kill me. My soul is hers and hers alone!" Courage, stemming from Link's valiant heart, forced out a show of defiance against the hate and the darkness personified in his aggressor.

"I have no wish for your soul, boy, yet the shadow in your heart… it is mine." The void began to swirl inwards, sparks of a nothing deeper than shadow spiralling outwards into a great orb. "Tell me…what do you think of my power? They will be greater still before I am done with you."

There was no chance for Link to answer. A wolf uncaged, the ethereal evil leapt from fist to force to flesh. Agony filled the world.

No screams tore from his throat. '_Have courage_', a voice deep within him whispered. '_Withstand the trial of pain, there are more to come. Withstand the trial of dissolution, there are more to come. Withstand the trial of death, it will never end. The loss of one half of your soul is a loss that you must overcome. Let what comes, come. I watch over you. I guide your footfalls. I am your divine warden.'_ The presence of a Goddess was unnatural, and powerful. Her being entrapped within his form was more than his soul could bear. The centre of his being tore apart, weakened by shadow-magic, savagely destroyed by the embrace of courage and life itself.

A formless shadow was ripped from Link's body, emanating from everywhere and nowhere. It pooled together in front of his eyes, and was grasped firmly by the figure from hell. Consciousness was a fading memory, even within the dream. Writhing in intolerable torment, Link slipped into real sleep. Restless, and tortured, yet free from the black phantom which repeated this act of desecration every time he dared to sleep.

---

A large rubber ball shot through the air, and impacted with the side of Link's head, sending him to the ground. A single drop of blood formed in the corner of his mouth, eerily reminiscent of the dream. By the sniggers coming from the direction of the ball, it was no accident.

He turned sad, reproachful eyes on the group of brash youngsters who were already disinterested in their petty attack, only to meet their backs with his gaze. They simply didn't care enough to watch him fall. He was nobody.

She was somebody. Long, golden hair sweeping down her back, braided in places, she was the embodiment of elegance. She was not attractive, in the conventional sense, yet had an overwhelming archaic beauty that even the most unobservant lout could see. She swept past the brazen youths, towards Link.

She bent down, and Link could only stare in amazement and wonder. He couldn't help but wonder if she was really going to – she picked up a tiny glittering object from the ground beside him. It was an earring. Another tear almost formed then, one not of blood, before Link pushed away the flood of misery that washed over him. It was his own fault for allowing himself to believe someone cared. Or so he told himself.

"Zelda…" he murmured to himself, so softly even she could not hear him, so close they almost touched as delicate fingers closed around the miniscule jewel. He could feel no vehemence towards her. The group had retrieved their ball from where it had rolled, and began their old game anew. As before, the ball shot out towards Link. He didn't even think they were aware of what they were doing to him. They can't have been, because this time there was something else – someone else – in the way.

Link glanced at the ball as it sped towards Zelda, and the back of his left hand suddenly began to twitch, an irritating itch that almost knocked him off balance. The hand shot out, almost of its own volition. Link could barely realise what he was doing. His hand came into contact with the ball, a hair's breadth away from Zelda's silken hair. The ball stopped. Zelda turned her face, and gave a squeak of shock, more than pain, as her nose was crushed against the ball held by Link's fingertips. Naturally, he dropped the ball quickly, and was grateful she thought it to have been kicked at her, rather than blaming him. Her back had also been turned. Nobody had seen what Link had done. Nobody important saw.

He brooded on this for the rest of the day, the itching hand a constant reminder. The itch faded, for a while, almost dying away, but then something completely unexpected happened. Zelda wandered into a lesson, late. Some note or other was clutched in her hand, and she explained at great length about trivial events delaying her. A younger student injuring himself, or herself – itself, Link would have said, but in a fond way. Young children could be nice, before they grew up and were corrupted. He liked them as much as he could be said to like anyone.

More than anyone else, he despised Zelda. He loathed her for her impossible perfection and impeccable charisma. He detested her for her huge ring of friends and admirers. He hated her above all else – for being so unattainable. Always, he had harboured affection towards her, never able to act on it. How could he, when he couldn't even speak to a person he couldn't care less about? Lust burned in his heart. Not love.

Being late, all the seats in the room were occupied save for one. The one that nobody would sit in unless necessary; the chair next to Link, the chair she was forced to take. As Zelda sat, Link's heart began to race, and his hand began to itch. The lesson dragged on in awkward silence as everyone about them chatted amiably. Link didn't speak to anyone. He longed to, but every time Zelda attempted to engage Link in conversation, his throat dried and his tongue froze in his mouth.

Minutes, seconds, and eventually an hour – they all dragged by in agonising slowness. At last, the period was over. A bell rang shrilly somewhere overhead, interrupting the lecturing teacher mid-word. Students shuffled and fidgeted, reaching for bags or books, gathering together their things, getting ready to leave.

Zelda pulled back her hair and wound it in one hand, into a long flowing knot. Letting it fall back over one shoulder, she rubbed at her left hand absentmindedly, and shifted slightly before standing.

As she stood, she placed one hand upon the old wooden surface of the desk – right on a thick splinter.

"Ah!" she inhaled sharply, and jerked back her whole arm, away from the sting, like the bite of an institutionalised insect. The palm of her flailing hand caught the back of Link's. The back of his left hand – and flames erupted where their flesh met.

A deep gold flare burned around their skin, shining so brightly. Tongues of flame licked around three triangles of an even deeper gold, emanating from the point where their hands met – gold so deep and so powerful that human eyes could not bear to look upon it and saw only black.

All this was over in an instant. Light, flame, the pain and smell of sickly burnt flesh – all gone. Over so fast that nobody in the room had noticed, save for the black spots dancing across their vision, as if caught in a sudden spell of dizziness. Link didn't notice. Zelda didn't notice.

She rubbed her hand again, curiously – the tiny cut from the splinter had healed, and the tingling stopped. Not worrying about it for even a moment, she smiled at Link, out of a habit of being nice, rather than really seeing him, and left his side with a hasty

"See you".

He couldn't reply before she was out of the room, and was left standing there, alone again. What seemed like hours, but must have only been seconds passed, and then a whispered reply crept past his lips.

*Goodbye… Zelda."

---

Night fell with the eagerness of a pouncing lion, ready to savage its prey. Thick roiling darkness obscured the tiny pinpricks of stars, only the pale eye of the moon glowing forth from the shadows.

Between gaps in the penumbra of clouds, pools of feeble moonlight shone forth. Within one of these pools lay the shadow of a young man, darker than the shadows outside the pool. There was no body to cast this shadow.

The shadow raised its head and screamed a wordless cry of victory. For decades it had searched this world of steam and oil. Grease-ridden air seemed to plague him, but it was worth it. A vile horseless metal chariot rushed past, foul smog bellowing in its wake. The shadow held its ground as it shot past, and the driver shuddered as a rush of cold air passed through his body and his vision flickered darkly for a fraction of a second; all as the shadow touched the driver's body.

It left the body of the driver – he was not what it wanted. And yet…

The shadow could sense it was almost there.

The shadow waited.

---

Link trudged along a dark path, tall hedges and cast iron fencing sealing off the gardens before all the houses by each side of the road from him. Every time he stepped through a pool of moonlight, the back of one hand glittered with a tiny shapeless fleck of gold.

It was a warm night, and he was wearing thick clothes, so he found it strange when a chill burst through him, but it was quickly replaced with a sense of joyous elation. He wanted to open his mouth and yell defiance at everything around him. It was inexplicable, yet inexorable. The feeling faded, and the shadows brightened back into their ordinary depth of shade.

Deep within his soul, tendrils of gold and black wrapped around one another, like fingers of a clasped hand. Had the shadow a mouth, it would have smiled. It smiled – with Link's mouth. His pace quickened cheerfully. He had never felt this way before! He wanted to rush across the darkened streets and dance upon the sky. He tilted his eyes back to view the moon, and casually saluted his sister, the moon.

'_A strange thought'_, he wondered about his sudden affinity towards the moon for a moment, before becoming distracted by something new. The darkness was no longer an obstacle. Every contour and texture of shade seemed almost as bright as day – still unmistakably pitch black, yet also somehow more alive than the brightest day had ever seemed.

Deep within his soul, the shadow faded into the last thin glow of black, and drew itself tightly around the golden light of Link's soul. Black and gold struggled against one another, biting and tearing, until at last all was still.

No longer black, no longer gold, Link's heart beat slowly, a steady measured beat. New blood raced around his body, bringing vigour to his tired limbs. Before he knew it, he stood outside the orphanage he called home.

With a single bound of flexed muscles, barely an effort, Link soared through the air to land on the sill of his window, well over ten feet above the ground. Graceful as a cat, he stepped lithely into the room – his room, and exhaustion overtook him.

Never had he felt so drained, and so alive. Energy pumped through his veins, screaming out for him to move, but his limbs refused to obey, becoming as stiff and brittle as aged lead. They stiffened up completely by the time he reached his bed, and he collapsed like a puppet with severed strings.

Sleep rose up in unison with his falling down, both meeting together in the depths of his being, pulling him totally and completely unconscious.

For the first time in his memory, Link did not dream that night. The empty shell of his being through which a remembrance of evil would seep was now full, and living. He was whole.


	2. Raiment of Shadow, lyrical blades

Sublime radiance lights a small, dingy room, the pale motes of dusty light reflected from a sleeping face. High, near-inhuman cheekbones and a sacrosanct elegance grace the sleeper's face, and as the first touch of light dawns upon his eyelids, they snap open. Link's eyes shine scarlet for a moment, peering from beneath long strands of black hair that have fallen onto them.

The sanguine red glimmers and glistens in the sunlight, melting softly into an azure blue as dark hair brightens to a dusty blonde, nearly brown. He reaches up with one hand, and sweeps wild, un-brushed hair out of his line of sight. Sitting up, Link scratches his neck sleepily, almost noticing his nails seem a little sharp, but the sensation fades too quickly for him to take any regard. As he yawns, the corner of his eye catches the cheaply framed mirror hanging on the opposite wall, a relic of the room's previous occupant, a girl a little younger than him, who had left before he came to live here, a lucky orphan who fulfilled the dream of adoption by allegedly kind parents. In truth, they were far from kind, but Link knew nothing of the horrors she endured.

'_Heh, my teeth seem almost sharp from this angle.'_ Link enjoyed the thought, and closed his eyes. Lying back, he stretches like a cat, arms, legs, and all muscles pulled as far as they would go, almost to the extent of injury. It felt good. The edge of his hand brushed the other arm as he stretched, and he looked down, half opening his eyes in surprise. Although physically no bigger, the muscle seemed leaner, tauter, and much firmer, giving the impression of an increased strength – glancing again into the mirror, he peers closely at his image. He frowned; there was something inexplicably different about his appearance, a new feral grace and unusual poise; he was a feline predator, ready to pounce, he was the statuesque figure of masculinity, and he was emanating a sense of power – falling short of menacing only by virtue of the nobility shining outwards from deep within his countenance.

A loud, angry hammering on the door pushed Link back to his senses. He turned to the noise, but before he was facing the door, it flew open with a resounding crash as it collided with the wall beside it, widening the already deep cracks from many similar impacts.

"Link! You pathetic little brat! What in Strae's name do you think you're doing still here? Get your worthless hide to school or I'll take my belt to you." The roaring was Deisun, the so-called patron, owner and manager of the small orphanage.

'_Cursing by the name of a desert daemon? Do you not realise how foolish that makes you sound? Thugs like you often aspire to emulate the Gerudo, but never realise how quickly they would eviscerate you for such blasphemy._' Link's brow furrowed in confusion – he didn't understand where that thought had come from.

"What do you think you're playing at, standing there with that stupid look on your face? Get out!" Screamed hoarse, he paused for breath, and Link looked at him, seeing him as if for the first time. A man of average height, he was slightly overweight, and balding, the few hairs remaining combed over a scalp shiny with sweat, his face alternating between an unhealthy purple and beetroot red. Link stood there for a moment, remembering all the times he had cowered from this man's blows, all the insults, and all the pain, both of body and mind.

From deep within Link's throat, a low, menacing growl began to rise. Barely audible, it was just enough to unsettle Deisun. The red-faced manager took a half step back, his voice as loud and brash as before, but with a distinct hesitancy, almost faltering. 'Get to school. You... need to get to school. Get out!' This time, there was a note of desperation in his command for Link to leave, not unlike fear.

Link stared at him for a moment more, and then nodded, once.

'_Why not?'_ He thought to himself '_School is as good a place as any to go. At least it's better than this place.'_ Always before he had dreaded going to school, its only redeeming quality the simple fact that it was somewhere away from the orphanage. Now, it had a certain dark appeal.

Taking one last look at the half glaring, half shocked Deisun, Link strode through the doorway, and descended the shabby stairwell.

"Link?" A young girl, fourteen, perhaps fifteen years old, peered out from another door, her hair dishevelled. She wore a threadbare assortment of outsized clothing; Link's castoffs, as they had been castoffs from an unknown donor in the distant past to him. He glanced briefly at her, one side of his mouth turning up in a feline grin for a split second, then leapt out into the air, and through the window that lay on the small landing midway down the stairs. It was open, and he fit through the wide gap between the sill and raised glass with so little space left spare it seemed to her as if he'd passed through the solid wall.

His knees bent slightly as he landed, and one arm moved a fraction upwards and outwards to steady himself, like a gymnast after a complex series of acrobatics. Not once did he break pace, continuing his forward motion in another bound, this one carrying him forward several feet, away from the dusty mud on which his feet fell, onto cracked slabs of paving stones which made a partial path to the orphanage's door. The slab was uneven and teetered precariously, wobbling enough to knock most people off balance. Link scarcely noticed, even going so far as to use the wobbling to give a little extra momentum to his next step, making it a little faster.

Walking faster felt better than slow, he sped up his pace, and then broke into a flat out run. Blood rushed through his veins, and muscles bulged, growing to suit the task. Effortless stride after stride after stride, Link sped forwards, the air rushing ever-louder through his ears as buildings whipped past him faster than he had ever ran before. Time lost all meaning.

---

Despite leaving the orphanage as late as he did, Link arrived at school early. Students milled about in front of outdoor lockers and buildings, some wandering inside, out of the colder air, others gathering in circles of friends, murmuring to one another as they woke up, slowly. He didn't join any of these groups. After all, he had no friends. For the first time, he didn't feel an outcast. He felt like this was where he belonged – separate.

Standing, leaning against a wall, with arms folded against his chest, Link gazed outwards, his eyes scanning the open spaces in front of him, and all those who walked or stood in them. Stray bangs hung down over his eyes, and he made no attempt to brush them away, enjoying the lines across his vision. It made the world much more interesting to look at.

A group of girls, about his age, wandered by, talking quietly amongst themselves. One of them happened to look in Link's direction, and stared. She nudged the others to draw their attention, dainty fingers prodding them firmly in the soft flesh of their stomachs when they ignored her first few words. He couldn't hear what she whispered to them, but they all sniggered disbelievingly, only to stop when they looked over at Link for himself.

Some small time later, Link overheard them.

"He's changed!" They whispered frantically to one another eagerly, ogling him as if they had never seen him before. He had no doubt of whom they meant, even from these two words, and smirked briefly.

He stood in that same pose, surveying everything within sight with the complete and total assurance that he was the master of all he saw. Nobody could put words to it, but each and every one of his fellow pupils got the feeling that here was the single person with the right to carry himself in that manner. From anyone else, it would have been arrogance. From Link, it was simply the manner in which he belonged.

A bell rang with a high-pitched shriek somewhere indiscriminate overhead, tolling the start of the timetabled school day. The low buzz of conversation broke up as the students drifted away from one another, meandering into their separate homerooms with a lazy, almost reluctant pace, not unlike a shoal of fish dispersing into the smog of the ocean, slowly disappearing from view, one by one, until none are left.

Link stood in the empty ground, not moving from his laidback pose. Almost every living creature had disappeared by the time he stirred, flicking back his head and shaking the hair from his eyes. His arms unfolded from clasped around one another, and he strode forwards. He could remember where his own homeroom was, but the memory was foggy, as if it wasn't truly his own. A member of school staff emerged from a doorway, and began to berate Link for his tardiness. Link turned to look at her. She was in her early thirties, he guessed, and of slight build.

"What are you doing, young man? Get to your lessons!"

'_No threat to me'_ He smirked, slightly, one corner of his mouth turning up in a condescending smile. As she saw that tony facial quirk, her heart began to beat faster. Who was she to question him, she asked herself silently. She looked at him, and saw something more than just a man. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, as If daring her to antagonise him. She blushed, and stammered out

"The bell went five minutes ago" almost apologetically. His smirk broadened, and he continued on his way.

---

Inside the school's hallway, a wide corridor framed in cheap metal lockers stretched along the entire length of the building, various classrooms, closets, and other rooms branching off from it like the appendages of a squatting insect, sealed behind closed doors of artificial wood. Link strode casually along this corridor, soft footsteps creating barely audible taps on the linoleum floor resplendent in gray, dirty green, and faded blue, giving it the overall appearance of an unclean washed out white.

Every door looked the same, save for a single metal nameplate halfway down the door, and the occasional sheet of paper or poster stuck in the faux-glass window, a pane of a transparent plastic filled with squares of overlapping wire, holding the glass in place so it would not break under impact – such as those inflicted by rowdy youngsters slamming doors open and shut – but instead remain in the pane, shattered, with all the appearance of a crumpled piece of clear film.

Link wandered forwards, one pace after another, until one of the doors – an open door – caught his eye; the door to an empty textiles classroom. A vague idea began to form within his mind, and he stepped through the doorway.

Bolts of various forms of cloth and material littered the room, from fragments of silk, discarded from a student's attempts to craft an elegant scarf – the scarf itself hanging on a peg towards the back of the room – to scraps of felt. Pride of place was given to a heap of what looked suspiciously like leather at the back of the room, in all colours from a soft loamy brown, the colour of a forest floor, to the deep black of a necromancer's candle.

Crossing the room, Link picked up a pair of razor edged craft scissors, and threw it towards the haphazard heap, pinning the uppermost layer to the wall. Three pieces of leather were held by the twin blades; one a loamy brown, another black, and the third a pale white colour. As he reached them, he pulled out the scissors, without breaking stride, and grasped a firm hold on the leather before it fell.

He moved over to a table, and placed the leather on the table, pushing two of the pieces away from him. Fingers coiled tightly around the scissors, and he made a long incision in the leather. He worked for some time.

Link stood, and rolled his shoulders back, stretching the muscles beginning to ache from inactivity. He made one final cut – in the softer flesh of his palm – and dropped the tool from his hand. It fell to the ground. As it fell, the drop of blood spread along the edge of the blade, and the handle hit the edge of the plywood table. The scissors snapped clean in half, each half a sanguine blade and single handle.

He stood and watched as the pair of broken objects twisted and shimmered with a diaphanous violet glow. The shadowy mist swirled about the objects, and they shattered into a metal dust. The dust -raised into the air by an immaterial force - in front of Link, reached the height of his chest. It rose, and it reformed. Shaped once again, the blades transmuted into a pair of long, oddly shaped daggers. They sliced through the air with a razor's edge for several inches, then bent, and continued with the same sharpness at a slight angle, giving the weapons an appearance almost in the shape of an arm, bent at the elbow an indiscriminate amount, long, slender, and ever so slightly crooked.

All along the flat of the blade, tiny etched filigree gleamed with a very faint purple tinge. The blades did not reflect the light, but seemed almost to absorb it, giving the air about them a darker atmosphere.

Link reached out, and took a dagger in each hand. They felt as if the belonged in his hands. As he held them, his left hand flared in agony for a split second, and a tiny silver arrangement of three triangles appeared on each blade, forming an inverted pyramid, the tip facing towards his hands, where they grasped the blades by their leather bound hilts, and a single upwards-pointing triangular empty space in the centre of the pyramid. He looked at the triforce, and closed both eyes as if in prayer, then opened them again.

'_How odd. This is not something which happens every day.'_ Despite what was occurring around him, Link seemed completely unfazed, as if it was normal; as if it was something which happened every day – to him.

His admiration of the blades completed, he looked down at the craftsmanship before him. His handiwork was almost complete. He reached down, and cut off a loose thread with his new daggers. The air shuddered with a sudden impact as the blades touched Link's handiwork, although nothing visible changed.

On the table stood three items of clothing; a tight-fitting black shirt, looking near enough exactly the same as one made by a tailor of utmost skill, a pair of black leather boots, soled with a thicker leather, and a long overcoat – not black, but a gray-purple so dark that it seemed black to all but the most obsequious of observers. Within the overcoat, obscured by the wearer's body, were several bands of white leather that seemed to be for holding things – tools, perhaps – or weapons.

Without any haste, and the door still wide open, Link pulled off his own shirt, and replaced it with the new one. Soft fabric brushed over hard ridges of muscle, seemingly carved from stone for all that they moved as the cloth slid against them. He swept the longer coat about his shoulders afterwards, and shrugged, causing the coat to slide forward. With the same gesture, he moved his arms back, quickly, fluidly, lithe and graceful as a cat, and they entered the sleeves of the coat as it moved back towards his body.

Tightly laced as they were, he stepped out of his shoes without undoing them, his feet seeming to move through the material around them like the whisper of an ethereal phantom's glide. Link took the boots from the table, and dropped them to the floor. They landed on their soles, one in front of each foot, perfectly spaced. They made no sound as they hit the floor. With two languid movements, he put on the boots. He glanced down before bending to tighten them, and saw that they were already laced tightly around his flesh.

Clad in his new gear, he threw the daggers backwards, each under the opposite arm to the one that held it. They hit a sheath of white leather perfectly and came to a stop without severing the fabric. Link pulled his new clothing closed around him, and the blades sang a dirge of blood as they pressed against him. He left the room, and he walked away.

---

It was not much later when Link found himself in a bathroom, staring into a mirror, looking at the highlights of black running through his normally lighter hair, and the flecks of crimson dancing in his eyes. The blades' song grew in intensity as he gazed into his own eyes, into the miniscule blood-red points.

He spun abruptly, and turned to the wall beside him. He threw back his coat, sending one of his daggers flying outwards, into his left hand with that same motion. He spun the dagger across his fingers for a few moments, and then embedded the tip into the robust stone wall. He pushed the blade in to a depth of almost a full inch, and began to write.

After he left, an occupant of one of the stalls unfastened the small bolt on the door, and stepped out, seeing only the very edge of Link's coat flowing behind him like a cloak, and hearing the door softly thud into the doorjamb. Link's footsteps made no sound; not to his ears.

The student walked over to the row of sinks, and turned a tap forcefully. An icy stream of water sluggishly fled out from the dank cavern of the water cistern somewhere within the school's endless catacomb of piping. He began to wash his hands, feeling the cold liquid gush out over them when he noticed something in the mirror. A chill ran through him, as if he had been doused in the water still flowing across his hands. He turned, and saw lines of thick writing carved into the wall in a deep, imposing script, looking like nothing so much as the inscriptions on stone tablets found from the days of long lost religions, in the distant past. His lips moved silently, and awe smothered his face as he read.

_Writhing in darkness, shrouded in torment,_

_can this agony never end, for thee?_

_Have I the desire, the temper'ment,_

_to stop my dread Banshee's vile hellish scree?_

_The sweet scented rivers of cursèd flame,_

_flow through my soul, burn with my fel fury._

_Live! Oh my shadow-self! Bring forth the true_

_desolation from which none can be free;_

_bring the dark, bring the light, powers divine,_

_and demoniac alike – grant them death._

_Death to they who kneel before me so lame,_

_cripple of soul if not body, draw breath_

_now, and know it to be thy very last._

_Hades awaits thee – thy time has long passed._

At last he remembered how to speak, shuddering and croaking

"What…what the hell?" He backed away from the wall, turning and rushing out of the door as fast as he could without actually breaking into a run. Confusion and fear ran rampant across his features. Above these emotions lay an overriding, all consuming trepidation of what this could mean. He knew only one thing; he would never forget the sight of this dark message carved so deeply into thick stone.

---

It was almost an hour later when Link deigned to join the other students in their education. He didn't want undue attention, so he slipped into the classroom, unseen, and perched on a chair in the back of the room. Nobody saw him; they were all too caught up in their own whispered conversations, listening to the lecturing teacher standing at the front of the class, or else half asleep. The chair scraped gently along the floor, a sound muffled by the carpet, as Link turned it slightly, so that his back was to the wall, and he faced outwards into the room. He leant back and closed his eyes.

He wasn't paying any heed to what was going on around him, just leaning backwards and listening to the steady pace of his own heartbeat, revelling in the feel of the warm blood of life coursing through his body.

A rush of air in front of him woke Link from his reverie. His left hand shot out, moving with such speed that his fingers tore a hole through the ball of scrunched up paper that had been thrown at him. His eyes opened, slowly, lazily. He didn't move his head, but his eyes flicked to the perpetrators of this petty crime. His expression didn't change. Theirs flooded with guilt.


	3. Bloodstained mahogany, rosepetal glow

Link sprawled in the old leather chair, one arm folded across his chest, and the other draped over the faded green armrest, complete with harsh metal studding – brass – which perforated the thin covering, holding it securely to the deteriorating oaken frame. His head was flung back, gazing with interest towards the whitewashed ceiling, past the dingy glass-shielded light bulb, at the near-invisible duo of black dots that drew one another together and apart, closer and further, in dance, of sorts.

Glancing up, Zelda saw nothing from her own seat, a lofty perch on the edge of the psychiatrist's desk, only the yellowed glare of artificial luminosity. His eyes, on the other hand, picked out a war on a microscopic scale; a territorial dispute between an insect, fighting with all its might in defence of both its life and home, and an arachnid aggressor, in search of a place to spin out long sticky threads of webbing, a meal to sate its ravenous hunger, and, above all, the simple pleasure of battle.

Wiry, insipid limbs entwined in ferocious rapacity and antagonism. Mandibles, teeth, and scaly appendages slashed mercilessly at one another, tearing flesh like the blades of a rusted saw. Shrieks of pain, inaudible to any but the Gods themselves, resounded throughout the room. The adrenaline was infectious. Link revelled in the aura of rage emanating from the twin combatants. His eyes were pure crimson. His hair no longer had even a single streak of lighter colour.

"Link, tell me what happened in the classroom." That was the psychiatrist speaking. In his mid-forties, at least, his hair was fast receding; there was very little left on the top of his head. He spoke in a reassuring tone – a contrast to his sharp businesslike suit. Every bit the image of nationalised business middle-management, he looked like a stereotypical banker or accountant. He sat leaning forwards, on an overstuffed armchair of the same colour and materials as the one in which Link lolled, although it looked distinctly more comfortable and thoroughly padded, his manner as falsely informal as his commercial counterparts were formal.

He sat back in his armchair and steepled his fingers together, waiting for an answer. As he waited, Link surveyed the room disinterestedly, his attention finally drawn from the fighting overhead. Long, elegant bookshelves adorned the border of the small office, along with copies of famous artworks, and small lamp-tables of a deep mahogany wood. On one of these tables, there rested an old-fashioned globe, looking hand painted, and several decades, if not a century old. He snorted in derision.

'_What kind of joke is this décor? This is a high school, not a redbrick university. Yet another fake in this world. Pathetic."_

"Come now young man, surely you have something to say for yourself?" Link simply raised an eyebrow in answer. While waiting for a reply that wasn't coming, the psychiatrist unlaced his fingers, beginning to cap and uncap a thin plastic biro lying on the resin-streaked wooden desk in front of him impatiently, remembering the endless tedium of bored students amusing themselves at his expense; by ignoring his questions, giving impetuous answers wrought with cynicism woven deeper into their words than even they understood, and through the form of an openly crude mockery and disregard of his feeble attempts to offer aid. Zelda smiled a little in amusement, a pair of pale rose-tinted lips rising like two soft petals of downy cherry blossom floating upwards in a gentle breeze. Her smile seemed almost to light the room, a source-less glow that pervaded every shadow

Eyes widening a little, Link spun in his chair, a single movement almost too fast for the eye to follow. Looking at the blonde girl in front of him, he half closed his eyes, and leant back again, arms crossed together in front of his chest like slabs of marble gravestone sealing a coffin away from the world. He began to laugh quietly, and the iciness of his demeanour faded.

"Interesting." His voice was low and melodious, as quiet as his laughter, and with nuances of amusement covering the tone of curiosity, yet despite its low pitch, it reverberated throughout the room, clearly audible to both the psychiatrist and Zelda. She blushed slightly, almost unnoticeably, a pink flush creeping across the soft skin of her cheeks, accentuating her high, regal cheekbones. Link's amusement grew, and he spoke again, in tones so close to silence that only Zelda, sitting so much closer to him, was able to hear. "How cute. The girl blushes."

Zelda glared at him, cursing her reaction, irritation flickering over her face at his patronising remark. He met her gaze, and she gasped in a blend of shock and disbelief. His eyes were such a rich scarlet that they almost shone, and his hair a dark jet black, like the feathered wings of death's raven messenger sweeping down across his brow as a demonic bird of prey swoops onto the field of battle, the set of his jaw and finely sculpted face carrying all the predatory elegance of such a creature. Their eyes locked, and he saw twin violet crystals, a colour not seen on any before – not on any human.

The psychiatrist slammed the palm of his open hand, soft and finely manicured, with large fingers caused not from work, but from a lax, easy life, down onto the desk, his boredom growing into outright annoyance.

"If you want to ogle each other do it outside." The pair in front of him, turning to look back at him too slowly for his liking, incurred full anger from the man behind the desk. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you!"

"I am looking at you!" Zelda argued weakly. He snorted; a mixture of a nasal grunt and clearing his throat, before demanding once more that they tell him what had occurred. This time, he asked Zelda. She sighed, glancing at Link, feeling guilty for discussing his actions in front of him as if he wasn't there, and began to explain.

Her words were reluctant, and she omitted details, attempting to minimise her own involvement, stopping her own discredit, while still accurately speaking of Link. The psychiatrist didn't ever discover the true story of what had happened, despite the interrogation.

---

Link had sat there in the classroom, the ball of scrunched up paper balanced across his fingers, not saying a word, or even twitching a single facial muscle. The throwers of such a dismal projectile looked very culpable, very guilty, but only for a moment. As the hands of the cheap plastic clock twitched from one place to the next, the guilt faded and was replaced by looks of false innocence, which was in turn shot over with a bland covering of hilarity. They began to snicker to themselves.

Minutes later, the sniggering of the youths who had thrown it hadn't stopped; they were looking elsewhere, for a new target.

They continued throwing their feeble missiles – the poor imitations of ballistae for the modern generations, heavily disciplined soldiers clad in iron armour and equipped with blade-edged steel and flame hardened wood replaced by giggling little children throwing things around a classroom– and were ignored totally by Link.

The lesson finished without any further incidents of note – at least, none that Link took any notice of. He stood, as did the other students, and walked towards the door in long easy strides as they gathered up their belongings, his long coat brushing outwards behind him, without any indication of what lay underneath it. He was almost at the door, and then the second incident came to pass.

A leg obstructed his path, reaching out in his way like an old stone bridge crumbling beneath its own brickwork, mortared joints fast transforming into the same ashen dust that coasts the road above it. It belonged to one of the perpetrators of throwing the ragged piece of balled paper. This time, Link looked at him – again, devoid of emotion, but a cold light burned in his eyes.

The fool with his leg extended attempted to trip Link, but Link simply walked through the leg, the force of his stride pushing it away and knocking its owner off balance, causing him to stumble a little.

Link was almost at the door when he tried again – this time with Zelda. She fell, all of her feathery grace lost, tumbling towards the ground more like a stone than a leaf; falling, rather than floating, heavily, rather than lightly.

Without seeming to move, Link was there, Zelda caught in his arms, inches from the ground. With one hand, he tenderly brushed a lock of golden hair from her face, checking to see if she was alright. As he saw she was shaken, yet not injured, he pulled her to her feet and steadied her, before turning to the one who had committed such a heinous crime as to attempt to injure Zelda; in jest or in desire for the bittersweet aroma of spilt blood, it was no less an atrocity in the burning red eyes of Link. Although she had not been hurt, the intention was almost the same as the deed. The desire to bring pain earned it as thoroughly as the causing of hurt would.

Link cocked his head a little to one side, almost questioningly. The would-be antagonist, not looking at Link – not looking at the frozen hate in his fiery eyes – saw Zelda stagger a half step before gathering her elegant poise once more. He saw her almost stumble – and he sniggered.

In another of his impossibly fast movements, Link was standing behind him. He put one hand on the back of his head, and leant down so his mouth was level with an ear.

"Strike three." He whispered in menacing tones. "And you're out."

---

A chilling scream of agony tore through the school, echoing from the classroom. It reached the ears of a young man standing in a doorway, one foot over the threshold as he stepped through. He froze as the sound reached his ears, and shuddered in foreboding, his mind leaping back to the message he had discovered inscribed upon a wall so short a time ago.

'_Is this…what is…that…thing on the wall…is this what it meant? Is this what will happen? What is this? What is happening!"_

His already unsettled pace began to increase, growing ever more nervous; he was a small bird on the edge of flight, fleeing from the shadow of something greater and more dangerous overhead. All modesty and composure aside, he broke into a walk so fast it was nearly an outright run, seeking solace from the events taking place on this dire day.

He quickly reached the edge of another group of students and buried himself in their midst, seeking safety in numbers like an animal huddling with its pack against the encroaching wind and storm. The icy bite that gnawed at his heart was not born from weather, yet still he tried to immerse himself in the warmth and safety of humanity, escaping from the alien nature of this day.

Mindless chatter surrounded him – only a short distance away from where he had been to hear that scream, they were unfazed by it, thinking it just another poor joke gone awry, resulting in a mediocre injury and a melodramatic performance undeserving of an audience so unappreciative as a school nurse.

'_If only they had seen that wall'_ He thought, the chill creeping back over him, threatening to drag him back down into fear, until his brooding was interrupted by another of the clique of students congregating about him.

"Hey Shad, you're really pale. S'wrong?" The question was shot at him by a friend standing in the centre of the group; she was a tomboy, but a certain allure of femininity came from her, despite her attempts to suppress it. Dressed in as unflattering clothing as she could find, and her dark, almost blue-black hair flowing down her back in a straight braid, she hid her figure as best she could, although unable to entirely conceal the soft curves and athletic muscle veiled beneath layers of cloth.

Shad looked at her, his face the epitome of misery, and tried to push away his bleak mood. The confusion and horror disappeared from his face, although not his mind, driven away by sheer force of will. He didn't want to worry her. He did his best to smile, although wasn't able to do more than twitch his mouth.

"It's nothing Ashei, I'm fine."

---

The psychiatrist drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting for Zelda to continue. When it became apparent that she had stopped, he sighed. Stifling a yawn, he stretched his legs out under the desk.

"That isn't what I'm interested in Zelda. Tell me what happened after that."

She cringed at the memory, feeling bile rise in her throat as she thought of the gory scene. It hadn't been especially unpleasant in itself, but the manner in which Link had done it – the sheer inhumanity of being able to do something like that so impassively – had shaken her.

"Link…pushed his face into the desk really hard." That was all she was willing to say. He sat back, understanding that Zelda was not going to be more forthcoming.

"I guess that's a mild way of putting it. You two go now. I'll talk to you both on Monday.

---

Standing behind him like a demonic wraith, or a spectre of death waiting to pass judgement on the figure before him, Link placed a single open-fingered hand on the back of the other student's head. He placed a hand on the back of his head, and he pushed.

In a single movement, as sharp and forceful as the cutting edge of a sword, Link thrust the miscreant's head downwards, into the desk. A resounding crack thundered throughout the room like a bolt of lightning striking the first dead tree of winter, splitting it in twain as surely as a woodsman's axe. Link's hand remained in the air from where he had driven the head forwards. He curled his fingers tightly shut, and withdraw his arm – a movement reminiscent of a swordsman sheathing his blade after a fresh kill.

Lying on the desk; looking so much like a corpse's skull that it was disconcerting; the head of the young man was face down. Streaks of blood ran outwards from the centre of his face in rivulets, marking out the cracked wood spiralling outwards from the point of impact; a gore-wrought image of Link's retribution.

Crushed beneath bone and wood, there was no longer anything recognisable as a nose. Destroyed completely, it had been annihilated as thoroughly and mercilessly as the unwilling guest of honour at an execution. No groans of pain came from Link's victim after the initial tormented wail – he was unconscious.

Sanguine artwork of horrifying perfection, this was no simple injury. This was the mark of punishment, of unjust justice. The penalty for crossing Link was severe, and this was a perfect example. The blood dried quickly, leaving discoloured wood permanently stained.

All around the gruesome scene, the students stood and stared, not sure what to make of this, hardly comprehending that something so surreal was happening. The loud ticking clock and deep thudding heartbeats seemed to be the only noises in the room. They held their breath in disbelief, afraid to make a sound, as if that would turn this from a vision of false castigation into the ruthless truth of reality.

---

Link stood outside the office with Zelda. Without speaking, they walked down the corridor together, outside the school, her footsteps tapping lightly on the floor, seeming loud beside his silent pace. She glanced over at him several times, anxious to say something, but unable to do so. He seemed content to walk in silence. As her eyes darted towards him, his lips twitched in a shade of an amused smile.

Finally, they stood by the school's gates – old fashioned, and crafted from wrought-iron, but worn from age and falling apart, the rust serving only to steal the beauty of a blacksmith's talent.

It was after dark by now, they had spent long hours in that dingy office, being interrogated about what had happened in the classroom that was now no longer in use, having been sealed off to prevent the smell of freshly spilt blood permeating throughout the school like a draught escaping into every corner of a building, evading the attempts to cleanse it away like a cool breeze escaping from the heat.

The injured youth had been taken to hospital, taken on a stretcher, and carried into the back of an ambulance by a pair of paramedics; one obese, the other old, both moving with slow motions so lacking in any verve that they seemed to say they were beyond any attempts at caring about this incident. It was just another day in their mundane jobs.

He, along with all the other students, was long since gone. Some had followed the ambulance to the hospital, planning to visit their friend – or catch up on an interesting piece of gossip – and others had gone home.

"Wait"! Zelda put a hand on Link's arm as he took a step in the opposite direction to her home. "Stay with me for a little while?"

He looked at her, and nodded silently. Her heart fluttered in gratitude, although she tried her best to ignore it, to ignore the pangs of emotion welling up from deep inside her at the thought of him leaving her.

"What's wrong with me today?" She berated herself, not realising she had spoken aloud, too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice.

Link put one of his hands over hers, still resting on his arm, holding him in place with no force that could possibly stop him from moving away – if he wanted to.

"Nothing is wrong with you, girl." Zelda jerked in surprise at the sound of his voice, something she hadn't heard before today.

"Is there something wrong with you? You seem…different." Link simply looked at Zelda, his face as blank as a sheet of freshly set glass, without even a hint of a reply. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" She began, attempting to apologise, worrying she had offended her crimson-eyed companion.

"It's okay. Really."He smiled at her, reassuringly, and his hair seemed a little lighter. Zelda smiled in return, gratefully. His eyes faded to an azure blue, passing through the gentle violet of Zelda's own eyes.

Slowly changing colour, his eyes were the same shade as hers, a soft purple, when she noticed, and gasped.

"Link, your eyes are purple!" The irony of the exclamation was not lost on him, and a single one of his finger threaded its way across the ivory skin beneath one of her eyes, reminding her of her own eye-colour. She blushed once more, as she had done in the office so many hours ago.

"Good night, Zelda." He walked away, brushing her arm aside almost tenderly as he passed her, disappearing into the shadows of night. She watched his fading figure until he was out of sight, biting her lip softly. His eyes - purple, blue, and red, danced across her dreams that night - try as she might, she couldn't escape from them. Nor did she want to.


End file.
